


Out of Place

by Eye_of_Purgatory



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Colony America (Hetalia), Dark America (Hetalia), Dark!America, Gen, Revolutionary War, Strong!America, Time Travel, Violence, strong america
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27569314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eye_of_Purgatory/pseuds/Eye_of_Purgatory
Summary: “And we have already established that you will not be meeting him Mr.-”“Jones, Alfred Freedom Jones.” America listens to this, also known as Alfred Franklin Kirkland, and thinks little of it.America from 2020 travels back in time to meet his younger self, but the modern nation is sorely out of place in the past. The young agrarian nation is as different as can be to a modern country with the power to end life as we know it.
Relationships: America & England (Hetalia), England & France (Hetalia)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32





	1. Part 1 - America

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you like this fic, I saw that there was far too few time travel fics for my liking, so I decided to write one. This fic is finished and will be uploaded in three parts.

The personified representation of the American colonies hangs around independence hall, even though Thomas Jefferson insisted he take a day off. Nobody around them knows very much about the way nations work, and even though he plans otherwise, America stays around, drawn to the place of action. He can hear the sounds of talking, of arguing, and of thinking; there is nothing he wants more than to go inside, all other goals forgotten in moments of impulse. Instead -because despite appearances the colony has learned some subtlety over two hundred years- he listens in to the vibrant sounds of his leaders.

“And perhaps sir, if you who are you claim there would be some sort of proof.” The sounds captivate the attention of the boy, the distinctive sound of George Washington, there is a secret being held. The guards about the building recognize him sneaking around the premises and think nothing of it, watching as America disappears through the somewhat drafty window into the building.

“Dudes how was my gun not enough, there's not a gun on this planet that can do that, sept mine.” America listens intently to a strange voice, the accent nearly incomprehensible but incredibly similar, surprisingly curt and slurred sounding words. None of the inhabitants seem to notice that the boy has entered the building, although he is unable to see the others' reaction.

“The evidence does not fit the claim, it is up to you to provide the burden of truth.” America somewhat tunes out the words of Washington, used to them far more than the stranger. When America approaches the room there is a foreboding presence, as if he was arguing with England.

“A nation could prove it-” The strange voice says in his accent, and America sneaks closer. The aura is distinctively nation, and America knows that from some part of his soul deep and buried. The floor doesn’t creek as the boy sneaks closer, none of the inhabitants notice his small footsteps and light breathing. America doesn’t think about the clawing of terror rising up, receding before the tsunami, the eye of the storm.

“And we have already established that you will not be meeting him Mr.-”

“Jones, Alfred Freedom Jones.” America listens to this, also known as Alfred Franklin Kirkland, and thinks little of it.

“Mr. Jones, we are not risking putting the lives of millions at risk for the sake of an indescribable impossibility.” Jefferson is speaking now, but the young nation doesn’t listen to the words of warning, and doesn't listen to the words from his heart. He could almost reach out and touch the stranger, though they have never laid eyes on one another.

“I have a great idea! Hey Tom just finished writing his declaration of freedom. Does this sound familiar? _The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America, When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation._ ” America feels drawn closer, because when he read the words they burned into his mind.

America SCREAMS.

He wants to run.

He wants to beg.

He is paralyzed on the spot.

The other man is taller than him, inhumanly buff, and absolutely terrifying. The nation could snap him in half with a warning look, he could fight every personification in the world at once and win. He was warned, he is a fool and knows to his core that he will die. The nation feels like a god, omnipotent and destructive, one that is hopefully merciful. America never knew he could read nation auras, but this one is impossible to look away from. The nation feels like a city burning and gunshots, a spirit of war.

The two nations stare at each other, the visual similarities striking and undeniable. They have the same eyes, the same face, the same hair; they are wearing different clothes, the stranger is older, buffer, and a few inches taller.

“What did you just do!” Something about Washington’s yelled words snap the young country out of his trance, backing up from the other nation until their eyes don't meet, and then he RUNS.

America can hear screaming, the room devolves into chaos as he runs down the hall opposite to where he entered.

The door is shut, he can’t open it and the nation is approaching from behind, his hands shake more than the door handle.

It won’t open. ”Hey dude!” the nation shouts, so America rips the door off the handles, running into the burning sun with a broken door in his arms.

“Sto-!” A voice shouts, so he runs in the other direction as quickly as his legs will take him, the aura following behind like a dog on a scent.

When he runs into a crowded street the floods part, letting the teen through at top speed to the center of Philadelphia, but he feels the aura on his back getting closer.

The streets start to become narrow alleys, the door still in his arms scrapes along the walls but he can’t seem to let it go. The aura follows still, matching every turn and shortcut even when they’re hidden, so he does the next best thing.

He jumps up onto the roof.

The roofs are easy to jump between, often connected by strange roofs and small gaps, so he jumps between them with ease. Broken glass sinks into his feet, and then when he trips his hands as well.

But he’s still running, dodging and not noticing as his feet get torn to shreds, but not enough to stop. The other is following him, a tidal wave of pain and screaming souls. He takes a turn, running erratically.

That doesn’t stop him, so he runs faster and faster and faster. He can’t stop.

But then his foot catches and he’s falling back down to the street, the ground approaching mercilessly.

But he’s caught before hitting the ground, grabbed out of the air by IT, and suddenly they’re rolling. He didn’t see the other, but when a hand grabs his wrist America retaliates by slamming the door between them.

The boy uses this moment to dart away, the people parting for his desperate flee. None of them help, they don’t care. He doesn’t hide, he doesn’t fight, he just runs.

He runs so fast he doesn’t notice when someone doesn’t part for him, running directly into a red coated chest, the man looks shocked but grabs a hold of him before he can react.

“Hey kid, are you ok?” The man asks, looking down at America’s dirty but high quality clothing. He dare not move, for the soldier has him in a grip only inhuman strength could beat.

Arthur doesn’t know where he is, and America would like to keep it that way.

“Sorry sir, that is my brother, he likes to cause trouble.” The other nation says cheerfully, grabbing onto America’s arm with a grip like steel. He tries to jerk away, but the aura feels like suffocating, the grip is too strong anyways.

“Running away from punishment?” The redcoat asks at the sight of his distress, and the realization that only the nation is holding onto him makes him tug harder, makes him fight. But he doesn’t make any headway.

“Uh, yeah, thats my brother for you. Come on we’re going home.” The nation starts back to where they came, America staying silent from the undeniable terror lodged in his throat. The people don’t part for them any more, so they push through the crowds like everybody else.

He wants to grab out and plead for help, to the people around him that he is and are him. ‘When worst comes to worst the people will help you’ Arthur had once said, but that wasn’t true then and isn’t now.

He reaches out for help and none see.

“I don’t remember being like this …” The nation mumbles, as if he is talking to himself but simply forgot he was speaking fairly loudly. America dare not say anything, looking to alleys and crowds that he could disappear into if let go of.

“Who are you?” America asks, saying without thinking and immediately regretting that.

The man pauses, America’s bravery comes crashing down around him. For a stunning and terrifying moment he truly expects to die, die like he always knew he would.

“Im you! From the future, good old year 2020." The other nation smiles with abnormally white teeth, and America swears the air around the pair gets less suffocating. His mind almost feels fuzzy, fluffy around the edges in a way that dulls the fear. When he looks up at the man it’s America’s face looking back down. He trusts before he realizes the terror has faded.

America stops, his future self stopping beside him, and tries not to think about how far in the future that really is. He’s not even two hundred, and the other nation is over two hundred years older than him. But his future self is a young adult, so far in the future, and they barely differ.

“Do we win?” He dares to ask, though not willing to accept the answer of no. If they look on the horizon they can see a faint view of where independence hall is, although not clearly. If he thinks of other things, the overpowering nation aura can be somewhat ignored. He has gotten used to it in a sense, less now the panic of suffocation than the pain of breathing smoke, a soft smoke that lodges in his head.

“And become the best country on the planet!” His older self cheers, fist to the sky, with a strained tone neither bother to hear. The news hits America with the force of a musket, the welling excitement, the possibility rising in his chest with a fluttering heart. He can see it in his mind’s eye, the view of a bright future where he is a leader in rationalism and democracy.

He can see the guards and delegates searching for him, and suddenly the rising moment turns into a seeming march to the gates of hell, “I don’t want to go back there right now.” he admits, good mood and surety of the future tarnished by the more present moment.

“I know a place.” The traveler from future times tells him, using a hand gesture to indicate he should follow behind -as sometime without noticing, the unrelenting grip on his upper arm had disappeared- and taking the next right on the path.  
They drift far enough apart that with the bustling crowd they are unable to hear each other, but America is capable of following the other simply through the spirit.

  
  
  
  


The rats squirm in the cage, and with the elder’s direction everyone in the room lifts wet rags to cover their mouth. It must be tens of the creatures, and with the flip of a switch brown gas settles over their bodies, and they panic.

They writhe in pain.

Rats tear through each other, small claws ripping out bits of skin and viscera as they try to flee.

The rats can’t breathe. They can only scream.

If he closes his eyes he can feel their pain, close enough to feel the desperation, creatures whose very souls cry out for mercy. Close enough to feel small claws in his side ripping out chunks, but nobody else notices. His nose is filled with a strong stench of mustard, it burns.

USA stands over the cage, insisting they stay there to watch the quick process where every rat dies, the mound now simply rotting, then leading them outside. America follows almost against his will, heavy feet dragging along when his mind refuses to leave the rats. They haven’t died just yet.

“With the implementation of this modified mustard gas into the plan we have the advantage, if you are able to lay traps along the edges perhaps the soldiers could be prevented from reaching the town entirely.”The elder says callously, as if he didn’t know God would be sent more souls because of him, or that he didn’t care. He watches with a sort of fear as USA unveils a strange metal canister that holds the power of a reaper inside.

“How can you do that! They’re people as well, how could you!” He yells in righteous fury, the men are not rats, and even rats do not deserve this fate. He turns to his people to plea for support, but they dismiss him.

“America, don’t act like a child.” Mr. Washington rebukes, making America almost feel ill, “This is an … interesting plan although I will have to think through it. Perhaps it will not be adaptable to this environment.” he muses, to his country’s horror. 

“Your loss,” The elder laughs in his strange dialect, “Make sure to reinforce the west side, that’s where they plan to sneak through the lines.” he comments with folded arms, as America stands on the outskirts. 

“And you know this how…” One of Mr. Washington’s aides, Mr. Hamilton, asks. He looks over the map with a curious eye, and with the entirety of his soul, America wants the elder to be mistaken. To be seen as the foolish one of them.

“Have the scar to prove it.” The man almost brags, as if failures were something to be celebrated instead of ignored and shamed.

America turns over to Washington, just barely managing to speak, “Is there anything I can do to help.” he asks, with full knowledge of the answer.

“Go talk to your people, sorry lad, you can return if you want.”

  
  
  
  


“You’re just like England.” America bites out when the elder joins him, sitting under the largest tree he could find. Although he was kept there by a desire not to feel stupid, fidgeting bored until interrupted.

The man somewhat contorts his face, an ugly action that makes America embarrassed, “No dude, come on. I’m nothing like that old fart, he only likes tea and books and being a total party pooper.” USA remarks, although that sounds strikingly opposite to the England that America knows. The man that would pursue the sea for tea, killing in the name of commodity. The man that would violently consume books with the intention of military knowledge, of a vicious competitive spirit.

“Running a nation doesn’t have to be about taking things from the governed!” He yells in a passionate fervor, “You don't have to brutalize the people on the side to win! You don’t have to kill like this …” He trails off at the end, perhaps remembering that he is talking back to the nation who decides his fate. Perhaps feeling the oppressive atmosphere around the other, and fearing.

“Like what bro?”

“Kill and wreak destruction without a point or care, it's unethical, it's horrible.” He comments without looking the other in the eyes, staring out onto the fields of soldiers who agreed to help him be free.

“C’mon, we lead the world into democracy. We save the world from communism!” For some unknown reason America almost feels swept up in the other’s speech, although he does not know what it entails, “There are deaths in war, but these will just make the war end sooner, can’t risk you losing after all.” And is forcefully brought back to anger, of frustration at his treatment, of the knowledge that somebody treating him like an invalid would lead to a horrifying death for the enemy.

“You won without this! WHY DO YOU TREAT ME LIKE A CHILD, YOU DID THIS AND YOU WERE FINE!”

“Butterfly effect I guess, maybe I accidentally killed a guy who would’a turned traitor and then we lost.” USA responds in such a calm way that America comes crashing down, feeling as if the other was yelling a verbal rebuke about his immaturity.

“That is a terrible idea and you are an idiot.” America pouts, not having the slightest clue what the so-called ‘butterfly effect’ could possibly be.

“Guess who sounds like Britain now?” USA lightly mocks, sticking out his tongue. America wants to bury his head in the sand to avoid the embarrassment.

“How did I become what you are.” He groans, and USA seems to take that as encouragement.

“Time buddy.”

“I don't think time could change me that much.” He comments, thinking of the morals, the strange atmosphere, the garish clothing, the accent, and most of all the awful behavior.

“Times change quicker than you think.” USA has a strange tone in his strange accent, a sort of pang to the unfamiliar drawl.

“How do I become you, how do I change so much.”

“You become the best country on the world, that’s what!” America can’t help but focus on the suffocating aura, the endless screams of lingering burns, and decides not to question.

  
  
  
  


America stands in the battlefield, although with the worry of Mr. Washington he is reserved to the back lines. Something about the positive influence he has on the troops, but his older self rules the lines. 

If the idea of challenging the elder didn't make America unnaturally sick he might ask to rule instead.

A thin red line over the horizon announces the British presence, fear blankets the unit, muskets are loaded. He takes a quick look at barrels of the new weapon and tries not to think about it. If he looks he would see Britain leading the line, he would see his cold green eyes focused on his elder self, but he doesn’t look. He doesn’t know how to look Britain in the eyes anymore, as the winds are in their favor this day.

“GAS THE FUCKERS!” USA shouts in that crass accent of his. He feels a pressure in his mind pushing him to  _ just believe, fight for the world, fight, fight FIGHT _ as the battle starts in earnest.

The gas doesn't take effect right away, the cloud rolls downhill to settle over the redcoats. The British take aim, so do his people.

“FIRE!”

The British advance up the hill, superior numbers and discipline. The tension almost breaks, he can see the whites of their eyes. He can see that the whites of their eyes are certainly not white anymore. He hears a round of coughing.

The volley hits tens of them, falling to the ground in unimaginable pain. USA shoots his unholy creation of a gun into the crowd, seconds in between each shot. 

Their line starts to break, even the soldiers never hit look on the verge of death, the volley still hits.

“KEEP DISTANCE!” Comes the order like a speeding train, men follow it blindly, stepping back over the dead bodies as if they were possessed. He didn’t see a man break line, though the british one was full of holes and screaming men.

The redcoats disappear one by one until they all leave, he doesn’t bother looking for the man he can’t confront. Their unit finally devolves into cheering celebration once the last redcoats are out of sight, not considering the piles dead on the ground.  _ We can do this! We can fight to the end! _ Appears in the form of foreign thoughts.

There seems to be a few dozen dead on their lines, but the hordes of dead enemies are too many to count. They lay on the ground with some sparks of life, some dead attempting to flee father away. The battle only did last a few minutes.

A man twitches on the bottom of the hill, America watches him claw at his throat with silent pain. The other soldiers leave the area, the bottom of the hill still carries the brown tinge of pestilence.

Each footstep drags him to the dying man, one voice in the chorus of pain. He doesn't notice his lungs burning, his entire body blistering like the twitching man. The man tears chunks of skin from his throat, more and more until the blood runs from his fingers faster than his sleeves soak up. 

The man’s eyes look glazed, red, and painful. The pain hangs in the air as if this was a divine punishment, but USA is no god. The man doesn’t look as if he wants to live, the struggles reactive and animalistic.

“I beg of you, survive! Live on to another day so my-I am not the cause of your death.” America croaks through the suffocation, reaching out to grasp the dying man’s arm to feel the viscerally disgusting tenderness of the pus infested wound. The man jerks away from the searing pain, although just in another writhing fit of agony.

The man in the red coat would be screaming in pain if he was able to force breath through his lungs, he would weep heavy tears if his eyes weren't blistered the worst of all. So his wails and gasps come out as a high pitched whistle and wheezing breaths. 

“You never had to do this. Why did you do this? Why! Please why don't you all just stop, just let us be.” 

The child wheezes out in a barely audible plea, feeling in a detached way the searing tearing sensation on his skin. The man is detached far less so, his hands fall from his throat and to the chest in a frantic move, tearing off the red coat as if it was inflicting pain.

“You had to die.”

Pockets of his face are rubbed raw and bleeding, covered in persisting open wounds that betray the layers beneath the skin. He looks like a man in hell, not like an animal so often butchered, who fell to eternal torture long ego. 

“Please…”

The soldier has bloody lips, cracked and torn down to the muscle, his tongue would be unrecognizable as such if apart from the mouth. Forceful breaths manage to clear the chunky, bloody pus from his airway just enough for the next breath. 

“You didn’t deserve this.”

The man tries to die like the others in the field, he feels to pull to nonexistence. But this is prevented unknowingly through the will of an inhuman being, prolonging his suffering until the end of its interest. 

America stands up on shaky legs, “I hope your time in hell is less painful than your dying moments,” he mouths, and looks around the field. Wild boars have already infested the fallen, tearing into the flesh in packs of a dozen or more. A murder of crows feast on the eyeballs of the dead, and those more unfortunate.

He does not bury the dead, and when the dawn breaks in which a person bothers to do so, many lying there are little more than scattered bones and torn fabric.


	2. Part 2 - USA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter from USA point of view when he is captured by the enemy.

Away from the camp, though close enough to see the light on the horizon, USA fires shot after shot with the newest musket he’s made. They land slightly skewed to the left from what he would expect, but with the most accuracy over a long range over the previous attempts. 

His mind wanders to the war effort, memories of a Valley forge that will never come at the front of his mind. They’re winning this time, winning horrifyingly so. Without their allies they may not have the same level of bargaining power, perhaps the end result would be improved if he held off negotiations until France and Spain joined in.

He can hear the rustling around his small clearing, a small sound that almost sounds like a stray dog. He doesn’t see anything when he looks over, and doesn’t feel the slight aura of a true blooded American animal. USA fires a warning shot into the bush, which stops the rustling almost instantly.

Strange, an animal would run.

A flash of red in his peripheral, instantly recognizable as the red of their coats through the trees. With the element of surprise on his side, and the assistance of the shootinator 69 to fight off the redcoats he stays relatively calm.

Perhaps It is England, he might be trying to attack USA’s younger self.

He should have expected the British would turn to guerrilla tactics when they started getting slaughtered, but this early is a little much. 

“Hands up!” USA does so with amused compliance, “We know who you are!”

“Who am I dudes?” He asks then, shootinator dropped to the floor though not any less dangerous. 

“Colony of America you are to surrender immediately, or we will shoot and bring you back dead.” He turns around to see the sour visage of a man he’s never met, and one that’s obviously never met him either. A few soldiers stand around him, about a half dozen, looking so unprepared USA wonders if England even meant for them to succeed.

“Aight.” he agrees, better him than the kid.

“I beg your pardon?” The officer asks, looking thoroughly unpleasant and confused.

“Beg.” He retorts, unthinking, although it is worth it in the redcoats’ expressions, “I agreed man, calm your tits.” he follows with, not in the mood for a fistfight. A gunfight would be more fun, but his is on the floor.

“Put out your hands,” USA allows the man to lock iron manacles around his wrist, ones that even a human could break given enough effort, “You are not to signal for help, assault one of your guards, and you are to be compliant. Or we will take you back with the force of the imperial army.”

“Yup” the soldiers look confused again, and he sighs with the emotion of every person who had to tone down their slang, “I agree to those terms.”

USA eyes a particularly young soldier pick up the shootinator 69, observing it with a sense of scrutiny and disinterest. Though his observations are quickly interrupted by the sound of footsteps, and being obedient -and completely devoted to his plan- USA picks up his feet to follow along.

  
  
  
  


He quickly learns that the guards around him are two things: incredibly and achingly human, and total idiots, sometimes both at the same time. 

“Who’re you writing to, kid?” He asks the one redcoat that is supposed to keep watch, a teenager of some sort who decided to write a letter. Sometime in the past hour the soldier stopped glancing over to USA as he did this, now just completely zoned out. Maybe he doesn’t think USA can break out of the ropes tying his hands to a tree, maybe he doesn’t think USA will run away, maybe he doesn’t care.

“Telling of your glorious exploits talking to a nation, wait do you know I’m a nation.” USA trails on, fiddling in a way that almost breaks the chains. He doesn’t like acting helpless, sitting around, pretending to not be the hero.

“You aren’t listening to me.” He decides, and the kid does not respond. Just sits there, slowly scratching at the paper.

“I’m going to escape right now, are you ok with that?”

“I’m escaping.” He narrates, carefully breaking the ropes in the most silent way possible. This is an incredibly always hand movement, as he tries to preserve the chains and use strength.

“You’re no fun.” USA complains, deciding that he might as well find the others. 

Tracing back steps to where they split off from the group brings him to a fairly quiet clearing, the only occupant a black house cat.

USA looks at the house cat, and the cat looks back with a telling look. Animals always act strangely around him, but cats most of all, they like to stare him directly in the eyes. This one decides to brazenly come closer, and by the state of its coat the cat doesn’t have an owner. Said cat climbs onto his shoulder, stabilizing itself like some kind of bird with the use of digging claws.

More tracks lead in a different direction, west compared to the north he must go to get back to the redcoat kid. With a slow stroll-like walk so the cat can continue to balance, USA starts to feel the bustle of people. His people. They’re in a town.

“We don’t want any damn redcoats over here, now ge-out!” A woman’s voice shouts, from a stones throw south-west. An awkward crossing of the arms generally hides the manacles, but the cat on his shoulder would still attract attention, so he carefully encourages the small being to jump off. Said cat does so, but follows anyway.

USA casually treks over to the sounds of slight commotion, smiling at the patriots he passes by, “We don’t want to cause trouble, we will pay for the supplies and leave.” The captain of the soldiers keeping him captive says, barely muffling a reaction when USA comes into view. A farmer stands by, glaring with a gaze of steel. 

USA nudges his way through the crowd, the American talks “Are you going to steal the supplies anyway? Where do you claim your dignity comes from.” she stands, USA can feel that the others look up to her, as the patriots around them are nearly hostile. USA stands by for now.

“I will not fire first.” The redcoat comments, scrunching up his face in an effort of trying not to yell. His face ends up in a constipated sort of grimace.

“Oh, I wonder where that sentiment was at the Boston massacre.” She accuses, glaring as she seems wont to do. The people around her create somewhat of a ruckus, pushing around in a way that would scare any less determined cat away from him. Said cat places itself firmly between the safety of his legs.

“They were threatening our soldiers, we had no-”

“Get. Out.” The farmer states, and in any other case USA would be happy to give up now, letting the redcoats suffer a sort of petty retribution. But if they don’t have food supplies, he doesn’t either, and weeks without proper food is not something he’s willing to bear.

USA walks through the crowd, with an intent that makes them part around him, the cat following close on his heels. Soon he stands beside the captain, a man who looks incredibly uncomfortable at the whole situation.

“I’m sorry if we’ve had a bit of a misunderstanding. You see, I’m an American diplomat,” he starts to whisper conspiratorially and falling back into his accent long ago, lying with the ease of a second nature, “Trying to get the British bastards to surrender ya know,” and in a louder voice, “We ran out of food on the way to the British lines.”

“I ain’t heard of no diplomatic mission.”

“Not in the papers yet, don’t want to disappoint the people if this falls through.” he can almost feel as her doubt eases away, “Come on, we’ll pay double. Call it a tax on the British” USA decides to offer, out of a pettiness he holds deep in his heart. These are his people, with enough convincing they would have likely given the food to him for free.

“They deserve it, take the food.” She acquiesce, the promise of high payment too much to turn down in the flailing economy of the time, “Do good work kid, we all need this war of damnation to finally end.” She comments, the label of kid being happily taken by USA. He hopes the youthfulness means that he has many more years to come, a sort of reassurance so rare in the modern world.

“For the people!” he cheers, and the rest join in around him. The redcoats in their midst look almost fearful in a way, as if they expected USA to turn the favor of the people into a weapon against those who believe to be his captors.

He likely would have done such if he was who they thought he was, although they don’t need to know such. As they walk back into the camp together USA flashes the manacles still present on his hands, that nobody noticed in accordance to his wishes. The cat jumps back up on his shoulder, a calming presence even with the painful bite of the claws.

  
  
  
  


He hides the full extent of his aura as he sits in the dark room, or at least attempts to remember what England once told him to do. He believes he is on some sort of ship. Although the soldiers decided to blindfold him a few miles away from the end, for a reason USA doesn't care to comprehend.

He tries to stay calm as they chain his feet together and lock his hands to the table, never liking to feel powerless. His stomach is also chained to the back of the chair, his knees together, and his legs to the chair legs. They must have learned something from the previous camps, although that something was not that he doesn’t try to escape.

It’s difficult to stay calm as the blindfold does not come off, though he can hear the sounds of the sea and other people. There are none of his people around, no much he tries to focus on their presence.

It is very challenging to stay calm.

There is a soldier in the room, a case of the sniffles alerting USA to the fact he sits a few feet in front and to the left. He tries to think up a backstory for this man to pass the time, going off of what he can feel deep in his soul like a sort of ache.

He first endeavors to give the man a name, a name starting with the letter J would be most fitting. Jeremy, Joshua, Jesus, Jacob, Jeremy, Josiah, Jackson, Joseph, Jeremy, Jeremy, Jonah, Jeremy, Josiah, Jeremiah, Jeremy. The man feels most like a Jeremy.

Jeremy is both a parent and not a parent, the vibes are mixed on this, maybe a parent in blood not soul, or the other way around. 

He feels like he would be one of the people from the boring part of England, that middle part that he’s been to but the memories are fuzzy. A name comes to mind, Grantham, that he can’t quite remember the details on. He likes to imagine that Jeremy is from Grantham.

Jeremy has continued sniffling, and USA tries to imagine why. Maybe he is allergic to the sea? Although he doesn’t think Jeremy is allergic to the sea. USA thinks until his head hurts, a dull pain almost as bad as when Jeremy leaves the room shortly after.

USA is now alone in the room, not about to escape because the fun part hasn’t happened. The experience is dull without Jeremy to imagine about, but now with him out of the room it isn’t nearly as appealing an idea. 

He has no idea if his cat friend has followed him here as well, he named her pants, but he hopes. “Pants!” He calls out, but the only response is a noise at the door. Pants did not hear his call.

Eventually England walks into the room, USA can recognize the sound of the boots he used to wear. He feels weaker, a sort of gut knowledge that tells him something is wrong with his friend. He feels ill, he feels absolutely pissed, and he even feels more pretentious.

The blindfold is ripped off his face and America has to restrain himself from an audible gasp of shock. His memories paint the empire as an imposing, old, terrifying nation, one who could level the earth if he put his mind to it. England looks barely on his feet, sickly even, sunken eyes and more faint than the most dire moments of the second world war. But even more so, the nation in front of him appears both shockingly short and shockingly young.

“America.” England looks him over in a glare that he has come to associate with stupid pranks and various squabbles, incredibly jarring for the moment.

“Hello.” USA manages a reply after restraining his instinct to laugh.

“I never knew you to grow this fast.” England uncomfortably states before regaining a sense of control, “You are hiding something.” he decides, with the confidence of a man who does not know the ease of his observations.

USA rolls his eyes in a vague attempt to appear more as his teenage sense, although it ends up being surprisingly genuine, “What was I supposed to do, write you a letter and spill my deepest secrets. Go send it past the lines, maybe hand it to you in battle.”

“You know what I am talking about.” He says, with the look in his eyes that means he is reliving his worst moments. USA can’t help but want to squirm, but he knows why this is.

“Jeez, ask away then.” He admits, unconsciously fiddling with the manacles as England stares him down. They’re both weak and strong, probably enough to hurt like a bitch, he thinks, but just in the moment.

There are windows in this room, not large enough for a human to fit through, although the wood around them is bloated and weak. A door is across from him, unlocked and unguarded.

“John F. Kennedy. Who is he.” England interrogates him with a tone more similar to fuzzy memories of lectures rather than to the questioning of axis powers.

“Uhhhh, gimme a hint.” He tries to resist the urge to tell his truth, a story about a president still strong in his mind. 

“America even I know you are not this much of a dunce.” The words are surprisingly comforting. England roots around his coat for something, eventually pulling out a disgusting looking letter. USA has to crane his neck to read it on the table, the words smudged nearly beyond recognition.

_ Dear General, _

_ We have sent a new shipment from  _ _ US _ _ John F. Kennedy, an improved version of the MS. You are to use the remains of the previous shipment liberally, as designations of when to utilize MS is referencing the more efficient batch. _

_ Sincerely _

_ George Washington _

“Now will you answer?” England asks impatiently, as if military secrets were like cookie jars and sneaking out late. 

“His real name is uhhh” he looks back at the two letters, they look awfully like initials …

“Ulysses S Grant.” USA says the first name he can think of like that, glad that he didn’t actually say someone alive at this time, “He was born in Ohio, uh I mean the Ohio river valley ya know. Great dude, great general. He’s gonna be president one day.” USA rambles in a way that England is notably unhappy about.

“I was under the assumption that the presidential role in your, what were they?-Articles of confederation, isn’t much of a position.”

“So?” USA challenges, and if anything it just gets England to drop the subject. 

“Do you know anything else lad?” the nation asks, pressing a hand to his forehead like he still does two hundred years later.

“Washington doesn’t trust me much.” he admits, the general always suspecting some sort of secret evil plan out of him. That didn’t stop the Americans from using his weapons though.

England mutters something under his breath about patriots, but USA isn’t bothered all that much. He found that though he will always be thankful, the founding fathers don’t match up to figures seen through rose colored glass.

  
  
  


USA wakes up to the sound of the door opening to the room, morning light streaming through the one dingy window on the wall. England looks just as shocking as before, the younger, weaker, shorter England takes some getting used to. He is quickly awake, sitting up with a grin directed to the man at the other side of the room.

“Morning Britain!” He greets, like he greets his England whenever the other stays over at his home. 

“You haven’t tried to escape.” England remarks instead of any polite greeting, instead of the ‘hello America’ he is used to. USA never thought he would miss England even more when with his younger self, but the familiar face makes him lonely and homesick. Their bodies appear the same age, but the internal comparison makes the other look almost child-like. 

“You’ve got me locked to the table, how would I escape?” He pouts, fiddling with the chains. They’re more like a tamper seal than anything, and if he could put them back he would walk around the ship. 

“You could try to pick the lock and jump out the window.” England offers, although his hands are separated and locked to the table. 

“Good Idea, I’ll think about it.” USA offers cheerfully, staring wistfully at the window that is too small for his shoulders to fit through, even if it was designed to open. The light catches on dust in the air, surprisingly pretty for the surroundings. He looks back at England, who looks grim and somewhat huffy.

“Terrible idea, I won’t think about it?” He counters when England doesn’t respond, but that doesn’t get him to respond either. The empire is focused on the chains covering USA, ones that press into his sides when he does so much as breathe. 

“I can feel you thinking from over here.” USA remarks, with a giant grin.

“Is that supposed to be some sort of compliment?” England bites out with surprising anger, violent almost, slamming the door on his way out. USA vaguely realizes he’s had that tone for the entire conversation, and that he just hadn’t noticed.

  
  


USA is awake when England walks in this room, this time from a door he didn’t realize was behind him. The window isn’t shining as much light in the room, it looks to be around dusk outside. 

“We’re going to capture Boston.” England says bluntly, but his tone is far too emotional to be discussing capturing cities. USA remembers when he captured so many cities last time around from the enemies in the world wars. 

“You want me to surrender.” USA figures, feeling so utterly patronized if the other thought this could get him to surrender. He wants to punch something, although if he did maybe England would realize. He tries very hard not to, contorting his face into a painful grin to hide it. 

“Of course lad, it is your own fault after all.” England’s face is looking even more punch-able.

“You don’t have the forces.” USA counters, because he just knows how many people die each battle. He did the math -his intelligence is mostly about the military- and knows that about fifty percent of the forces England had at this point in history are out of the force through casualties. 

“We’ll do what we must.” 

“You’re going to burn it down.” USA realizes, and that shouldn’t be as surprising as it is. It’s only seventeen seventy eight, but eighteen fourteen is only thirty six years away. He almost reaches up to the faint mark over his heart, but the chains stop him.

“I will, I’ll surrender.” He lies.

“Thank you.”

“If you would send notice to my generals once we reach land.”

“Of course.” England says, he smiles even. USA hasn’t seen that smile since he was still in the future and even then England doesn’t smile all that much. He feels so incredibly guilty, so very very guilty. England looks even younger while smiling; he looks as if for once the weight of the world doesn’t rest on him. 

The fate of the world has never rested on England, he has never felt billions of lives in his hands. He shouldn't look like it does, he doesn’t deserve to look such. He doesn’t get to.

  
  


“Hey can I ask you something?” USA interrupts the companionable silence they found themselves in, England undid the chains from his hands so that they could play cards together. 

He can barely tear his mind away from the fact he can feel his people, they’re getting closer every moment. Like yelling in the distance. He’s never this long without his people, and hasn’t been for at least a hundred years. Even on vacations and hikes he can feel his people in the distance, on planes, on boats, in other countries, in conferences. Americans are everywhere, but not now.

“Of course lad.”

“What do you think the future is going to be like? I don’t know, lets just say in two hundred years.” He asks, and to his benefit England thinks nothing of it.

“Much the same, oh dear I still remember when Elizabeth was queen as if it was just a moment ago.” England doesn’t think much of it, focusing more on the cards in his hand, “You’re the only large change since then, although you aren’t even two hundred yet.”

“What if it wasn’t the same? I mean don’t you have some cool new machines?” he asks further, pushing for an answer. He can feel a city in the back of his mind. 

“No reason to dwell on it, maybe it will be helpful in putting down that Spanish leech.”

“What if the machines worked really well, what if it set off a whole new age where people could produce so much more.” He’s so close to just describing the modern world, damn the consequences. But the plan could fail if England knew.

“Then we would use the surplus for more fighting, to put the world under our command.” England seems to have a look in his eye like he does when he fights France, “Land as far as Australia even.” USA wants to sigh, because he thought Australia was already colonized by the brits.

“Imagine if you could fly to the moo-” He’s interrupted by the sudden stopping of the ship, the singing of the city is unmistakable now.

“Lad I have to go, I’ll be back soon, alright?”

“Yeah.”

USA waits until he can’t hear the sound of England’s boots, although he really waits until he can’t feel the other’s presence, to act. His hands are still free, and within a few minutes he is able to bend the chains to let him out. Careful not to make sound, he stretches out the limbs that haven’t been used in days. 

The man walks to the door behind him, slowly bending the lock so nobody can enter through that door. He walks to the door in front of him, hearing the sounds of the one man who sniffles: Jeremy. 

He lifts the chains again so they fall to the floor, a loud and grating sound that people notice. USA waits, standing at the doorway as the soldier meant to guard him comes over. The door is locked, and he can hear the sound of a fumbling key. 

USA grabs the man from behind, covering his mouth with a hand, “Now wha-mmhh!” He waits, the struggles of the other barely registering, to see if more soldiers come over.

One

Two

Three

“Okay dude, give me your coat and just sit here for a bit. Alright?” He says, making sure his voice isn’t too loud. USA takes his hand off Jeremy’s mouth, letting him talk.

“What if I scream for help?” The redcoat asks, looking honestly flustered at the whole situation. USA shifts his grip, holding the soldier up with his arms like a very large toddler. 

“Please don’t. Just be cool dude. I’m a big scary nation, just do what I say.” he asks, because the alternative would almost definitely end up with Jeremy’s death.

“C’mon Jeremy” he whines, forgetting that this is a name he gave the soldier himself, but the man freezes. Quickly Jeremy nods, and USA lets him down. Jeremy hands USA his distinctive red coat, which is slightly tight on him but fits well enough.

“Thanks dude.” USA says, leaving the soldier in the room while he heads to the deck of the ship. Luckily, Jeremy doesn’t alert any of the other guards that USA has escaped. He remains quietly sitting in the room. 

The area below deck is clear of other soldiers, so the main issue is finding the way up. But the decks come easily, a crowded area where nobody looks too closely at what he does.

He can see the coast, this ship is docked in the harbors, a place bustling in a city full of soul. The coast is fitted with buildings, it is delightfully loud. He makes his way to the bow of the ship, taking a moment to look out and admire. But USA knows what he must do.

He can feel the effort of his control seep over the city,  _ Boston _ it sings in his veins. So riled up with patriotic fervor that it isn’t difficult to feed it. A beast that roams the minds of everyone there, so few people can resist. 

_ KILL THEM.  _ He shouts without the burden of guilt,  _ FOR YOUR FAMILY! _ He shouts into the minds of parents,  _ FOR YOUR FUTURE! _ He shouts to the impressionable minds searching their way. 

The devotion of each mind rings as the liberty bell, soon deafening and spreading themselves.

_Kill the brits! Get revenge! We deserve better! Drive ‘em off! For AMERICA! Burn them! Defend the soul of our country! God wills it! Make the redcoats BLEED! For my son! Wash the sea with their blood!_

He can’t stop it now, they must exercise the panic. 

_ Freedom! Burn their boat! The devils men! FIGHT! Traitors to the people! For the country! For GOD! For our children! _

The fervor is almost incapacitating, he can feel their pleas in his bones. A chain reaction sets forth, a feedback loop that makes the deafening bells turn to a weapon unlike any other. His mind feels almost detached, the will of the people taking control above rational thought. 

_ DRIVE THEM OFF! End the WAR! Fight, Kill, make them PAY! _

The townsfolk surround the boat with horrifying fervor, holding pitchforks, guns, and whatever they could scrounge in their run to the ship. Redcoats try to shout pleas to end this fight, but the citizens either don’t care or can’t hear them over the cacophony around them.

He spares a glance to Britain as the man runs onto the deck, Britain is frozen to the spot and looks terrified. He can tell that USA isn’t America now, and some small part of USA hopes the terror is for the sake of his past self. 

Smoke rises in the air in a thick billowing cloud, he knows why, the constant scream of  _ Fight, Burn, Kill, Fight, Protect the country! _ Rings through the minds of all around them. 

He barely registers England’s shouting, Redcoats grab USA from all sides, and before he can move he is shot in the arm. USA tosses the men aside like toys, diving to the floor to avoid the ring of gunshots. 

He stays face pressed to the rough wooden deck until it starts to catch as well, and by that time no more shots are being fired. The smoke barely registered to USA, so he took the chance to look around for those who may die. 

England is among them, eyes shut tight and a uniform stained with far too much blood. USA knows he has survived worse, has seen with his own two eyes England up and fighting while bleeding out. But something pulls at him, he takes the nation into his arms and does the only thing he can.

USA jumps off the edge of the ship with England in his arms.

The water’s surface feels like concrete, though they quickly sink. With England in his arms USA can barely keep above the water, frequently falling under the currents in his struggle for air. He prioritizes keeping England above the surface, as the unconscious man might accidentally breathe in water.

He balances England with the ease of thousands of hours playing lifeguard, a habit his England mocks. Pieces of flaming wreckage float towards them, making this task uniquely difficult. USA watches as his gun and England’s pistol float away with the wreckage, with nothing he can do.

USA manages to struggle over to the shore before the fire on the boat fades away, a bright blaze that lights up the night sky. He heads into the woods away from the frantic crowd, who are desecrating the corpses of whatever redcoats they could catch. He tries to focus on the one he did save, the shallow breathing of the body in his arms. The heartbeat he must be imagining, the slight twitches of muscle, the faint warmth along with the bone aching chill of the sea. The sopping wet clothes can’t be helping, but this won’t kill either of them so he doesn’t bother. He does worry though, the England he last saw would be awake right now, the England he knows would be completely fine.

USA treks them both into the woods, no sounds but the crunch of leaves beneath his shoes. The cold sticks to his skin, but he keeps moving on. He doesn’t bother to think of a plan, except to get away from the city.

_ Don't let them run! The TRAITORS must DIE! _

The thoughts don’t cease, he won’t stop walking until they do. He won’t stop walking until his bones stop singing to join them, to be the center of the mob. 

_ DROWN THE KING'S MEN!  _

Finally the smoke starts to cease, hours after they left the scene. They screams die down to mere whispers,  _ drive out the traitors, the brits abash God _ , as the forests grow more dense and void. Not a single person has crossed their path when he desired solitude. He sees no other but the one in his arms, in a deathly still sleep that strikes fear into his soul. England, asleep for longer than USA has ever witnessed, is only a concern to the irrational part of him.

MEOW! USA frantically turns around, and Pants is there. The black cat looks ashy and burnt, staring at England in his arms. Pants meows louder, so he can see faint bits of red fabric in her mouth.

“Hey Pants, where have you been?” He asks weakly, kneeling down to place England on the floor. The cat violently hisses at the unconscious nation, USA catches her before she pounces. “C’mon Pants, he’s a friend,” but his words don’t soothe the irate cat. Instead, USA reaches down to gather England in his arms.

MEOW! He has barely started walking, and Pants is following at his heels. When he stops, she jumps again, digging her claws into England’s arms. The cat acts feral, scratching and biting as USA tries to knock her to the floor. Pants doesn’t bite or scratch him even as he swats at her.

“OFF!” he shouts, and surprisingly Pants jumps right to the floor, looking just a moment from attacking again. 

USA looks to the cat who was a companion, and to his friend in his arms. “Leave.” he orders without soul, “LEAVE!” he shouts, and the cat slinks off. 

The remaining hours of the day have notably lower morale, and not another animal shows up. When he makes camp around a small fire there are no cat eyes in the dark, he checked many times. The night is cold, dark, and lonely.

The next day is not much better, but as the sun travels through the sky USA sees more animals. When England makes a noise around mid-morning USA almost drops him, but upon further observation England is still asleep. He opens his eyes for a moment when the sun is at high noon, and when dusk starts to turn the skies black England slightly stirs.

When the night fully falls he makes another camp, catching a rabbit and coaxing a small fire with the best wood he could find. He stares at the roasting meat, and back at England. The other nation stirs slightly, blearily opening his eyes and settling them on USA.

“What did you do with America?” England bluntly asks as soon as he fully wakes, jerking USA into a sudden surprise. When he doesn’t immediately respond England stares him down with his glare of death, or however close he can get while looking so incredibly weak.

“Wha? Oh yeah he’s fine dude.” USA hands England the other half of the rabbit, which he looks at with suspicion.

“Then how did you take his form, changeling.” England looks murderous, but when he stands up he immediately sits back down, legs shaking the whole time. He looks far less murderous when he can’t even stand.

“‘M not a changelin wha’ver f’hat is.” He says with a mouth stuffed with food, England glares but doesn’t comment, “He’s fine, really. Can’t tell you where he is caus you’re in a war in all.”

“I don’t believe you. Or maybe you want to explain what you did with those people.” England rifles through his coat when USA isn’t looking, but finds nothing. 

“Well you’re a nation, you should know.” he reasons, salty because he had to find out how to do this on his own.

“Don’t lie to me! Your aura isn’t a nations, it’s an abomination! You forced him to fight me, didn’t you!” England’s harsh words snap USA into focusing more, hurting more than the other would predict. 

USA is yelling before he can think, “WELL MAYBE YOU JUST DIDN’T NOTICE WHAT NATIONS CAN DO! HE FOUGHT FOR HIMSELF AND YOU CAN’T TAKE THAT AWAY FROM HIM!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any input/opinions about this put it down below, I really appreciate the comments y'all! Next chapter will come out sometime on Saturday.


	3. Part 3 - France

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sort of Epilogue, France meets USA at the signing of the treaty.

“You shouldn’t be here frog.” England grits out, turning in a way that France can see the horrible scar on his neck, some sort of horrible burn that melted the skin. A sort of raw, taut, pink wound that stood out starkly. England breaks his view by quickly dawning his cravat, “I would like it if you allowed me my dignity while I am undressed.”

“Far too proud Angleterre, you dawn the same wounds of your soldiers.” He comments, looking at the bandaged hand, and the bruised face of his long time rival.

“I will not bear this shame to the world.” England bites out with a glare, angrily buttoning up a coat without the assistance of servants, “Rest assured I am as formidable an opponent as ever.” the words almost come out as a threat.

“I have heard tales of the battles.”

“Are you going to mock me then? For if you do I invite you to fight the same battles as I, and when you fail, to feel the same pain.” The empire threatens to the other’s taunting face. 

“They say the devil fights for them, wearing a human face.” France says, without a mocking tone or sarcastic drawl, eyes glued to where the cravat covers the unnatural wound. In his mind's eye he can see the march of mutilated soldiers. At least England’s wound is not marring his face in the way that others scars do. 

“You’re scared?”

“I would be a fool not to be. I have seen the men who got out alive,” he chuckles, how hundreds of British fell for each American goes unsaid, “And I would rather not be against such a force.” How every nation that could make it has arrived to see the signing of a treaty. For war only two of them fought, the tales have spread from mouth to mouth from pole to pole.

England pauses, quietly adjusting the rest of his clothes, not paying any attention to the other in the room. He walks over to the door, but does not exit.

“Unless you want to miss the signing of the treaty, follow me.”

“How romantic.” France pretends to swoon, following England out the door. The hallways of English castles are boring compared to the beauty of Versailles, and France makes sure to comment on just that. 

They arrive at the door, guarded from the outside for some strange reason. The room is filled with many he has not seen in years, China stands in the corner like a sort of ancient monolith, observing the room with worried caution. Egypt, Greece, and Turkey are having a strange conversation in the middle of the table, creating a mass people are unable to walk past. Ethiopia is having a conversation with an arabic nation France can’t identify, while Prussia and Spain are doing their best to get those two to take shots. Austria and Hungary are conversing with a few world leaders, he recognizes Catherine the Great and Frederick the Great, along with his own and England’s kings. 

Italy and the Holy Roman Empire are talking in a small group, with Roma and Portugal. Their chat doesn’t look like a calm one, Roma spewing vitriolic insults as he is wont to do. France feels embarrassed for Italy, such a nice child with such a terrible sibling. Quite like England in that regard.

Russia is looking at him, but France so intensely wants to avoid the creepy nation. Russia took an interest in him, adopting his styles and mimicking his culture. He would almost feel touched if not overwhelmingly uncomfortable.

The new world colonies have been sent to a separate section of the room, and the other nations watch the colonies as if this war would happen again. France spares a look at Canada, not having seen the boy in almost two decades. Perhaps if that dreaded war had never happened both him and England would be happier, although there is no way to change the past.

Something presses at the back of his mind, a strange foggy pressure that makes thinking a chore. Trying to ignore this, he continues to chat with England, but stops when the other seems too distracted to carry his part of the conversation.

There is somewhat of a ruckus outside, and without much to do France heads to the door, but it opens before he arrives. America walks into the room, followed by a terrifying force of nature. 

“Are you Rome?” He tentatively asks the young man that feels like the reckoning, like a tidal wave of angry souls, like the terrified rambling he heard the gallic tribes say of Rome. A nation soul that evokes nauseous terror and the obedience of a man who could kill God. 

“Uh no, thanks a lot though bro I really admire him. I’m future America. From 2020.” His voice quiets the room, although the sound itself is grating and unfamiliar. He looks like America, but also like the demon of Pride. He carries himself with a dangerous sort of confidence, in a manner that makes him more of a force to behold. His features are perfectly symmetrical, perfectly clear skin, and abnormally white teeth; The aura makes these features feel like those of an otherworldly being.

“What did you do?” France asks, as the aura feels like the rapture itself, as no reasonable nation should resemble the man in front of him, as the horrors of this war must have been due to him. 

“Huh?”

“He’s asking what you destroyed.” England interjects, “A city maybe,” he bites out, pointedly looking at that man. England is far more brave than him, as France cannot meet the other’s eyes.

“Dude, they only burnt the boat.”

“He helped me win the war!” The young America smiles, cheery if it were not so morbid in the face of that being. France figured that was the case, as well as any other nation worth their weight in sense.

“Dude, you did great. We didn’t need France and Spain's help this time ‘round. Gosh you even kept Florida.” The being walks further into the room, sparing France from his ungodly presence, “I mean we got it back but that was later.” Spain is observing the demonic one, sizing him up with a strange amount of hubris.

“Will you explain to me, whyever are you in this time?” Catherine, Empress of Russia asks. She looks him in the eyes, and she must not know what lies beneath the surface, or she would not stand with such strength.

“Oh shit, thanks Cathy! Uhh,” he turns to one of the American delegates that France had not noticed, “Ben I gave you something a couple of months ago dude, can I have it back?”

“Certainly.” The delegate produces a strange, perfectly square metallic device with a few buttons on it. The being does something to it, and for one terrifying moment the world turns white.

When the light dims another version of England is there, France has to look back at the version he knows to make sure. The other is overshadowed by the elder America, but still enough to make him beg the devil for mercy. He walks, taller, perfectly healthy, a far older gaze. He walks as if he knows humility, but with the power of such a nation France cannot imagine why.

“Dude! I won the bet!” The first man shouts, picking up and spinning the elder England in a strange display. France catches his rival’s eyes.

“America, I told you they would be terrified. Do you really think they aren’t?” Is the first thing this man says, in quite a strange accent, lecturing the being like one would a child. 

“What? Noooo.” The being does something that could be considered a pout, but looks out of place on one marked by the depths of hell itself, “I mean I know that people are scared of Russia, but me?” Eyes turn to the nation in question, who seems to look fairly proud. He does not want to see the day when that nation rules the world. 

“Yes.”

“You don’t hate me, do you little me?” The being turns to America, who gives a strained sort of acknowledgment that the being takes as a yes. To his own horror France can feel himself want to support the being, surely being a manipulation. He wouldn’t have noticed through the current pain otherwise.

“He’s trembling, can’t you see?”

“I’m a beacon of protection!” The elder America shouts, and suddenly the aura is all encompassing, suffocating, oppressing the thoughts inside his head. France doesn’t tell himself to stand up, but his feet carry him out of the door into another hallway. He doesn’t look back at the room he left, at the younger versions. He knows they will be safe, but he is another story.

France knows the layout of this English castle, but in a sort of haze does not keep track of the turns. He finds himself lost, wandering down halls he cannot tell the difference between, and between floors he does not know. He gives up on his dignity soon, sitting down in a hallway he does not remember or care for.

Perhaps it is minutes later, perhaps hours, but France hears the sound of shoes hitting the tiles. He knows who it is by the way the shoes hit the floor, a fact he never thought about before.

“Are you alright?” France looks up to see the older version of his greatest rival, looking deceptively harmless in a soft sort of woolen tunic and sans culottes. The man joins him on his undignified place on the floor.

“What did he do?” he asks, not bothering to look the other in the eyes, trying to keep his hands from trembling. 

“A few decades ago he, and by god I should never have helped him,” the guilty tone makes France’s already panicked heart catch in his throat. “America made the atomic bomb.” England says, and although France does not know exactly, he can guess. The city destroying, world leveling power from the other was due to this. 

“It’s this bomb that destroys entire cities, bigger than you can imagine, and wipes them off the map for the rest of time. Anyone who lives there will die of its sickness.”

“And he-” He trails off as nausea rises in his throat.

“He dropped it twice.” England says, almost cautiously, “And I know you can feel it, the force of thousands more in his arms. He doesn’t know the rest of us can tell.” There is something deeper and more meaningful about that that England does not say, something he doesn’t know if he can handle.

“What about you, have you ever?” He asks, suddenly not knowing the one nation he thought he always would. The other England still resides in the room, France can’t help but wondering how much he doesn’t know. How misguided he was if he thought England was not capable of such an atrocity.

“No, I never dropped any.” he pauses, in a way that prevents a wave of relief, “I have a few hundred.” he admits, calm with a tinge of regret. 

“Why isn’t your aura like his?” France then asks, as the inevitable sort of doom emitted by the elder America is contrasted by the comforting sort of aura England has that is the same as his younger self. An environment of bleak rain and endless ambition, with a ruthless sort of competition long since strange or threatening. 

“A few thousand is far different from a few hundred, but he never bothers to shield his aura.” England looks away, so France cannot see the face he had be drawn to, “I thought this may teach him a lesson.”

“I don’t think it did.” France bitterly counters, thinking of the terror in wars for years to come.

England looks at him, healthier than he has ever known, and suddenly France wishes to be thrown into the world of the future, no matter the seeming horrors. He wants to be in the mystical land of tomorrow, he wants to be in this land of health and imminent death, he wants to be with a fervor he cannot explain. Even more so, he assumes on some level his future self believes the opposite. A person who would trade existential terror for a more generally painful life. But this seems so far removed to France as to be irrelevant.

England remarks, “I know.” England stands up, extending his hand to France. He doesn’t take it, something feels wrong. England screws up his face in a sort of sad guilt. 

“I know,” he repeats, and for some reason France takes the hand this time. England stands taller than him now, for the first time ever. Something feels a bit strange, and maybe it’s that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this, check out some of my other works! If you have any takes on the story id love to hear them, or anything that you felt while reading it. I'm trying to practice my writing, so input is much appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment! It means a lot to me, and if you made it this far I hope you had a nice time reading!
> 
> I still do fic requests if y'all have any, so post something you'd want me to write in the comments.


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